


Slow Drip

by MonsterShow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial of Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Repressed Bisexual Dean Winchester, but not really an AU, first latte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28705260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterShow/pseuds/MonsterShow
Summary: Dean stays behind in Tacoma to keep an eye on Cas—who seems to have found his niche at the local coffee shop where he'd gone undercover during their case. Dean's strictly a diner coffee guy, but as he impatiently sits through Cas' last few shifts, he starts to realize how much better life can be when you try something a little different.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 52
Kudos: 241
Collections: Dean/Cas Tropefest 2021 Mid-Winter 5k





	Slow Drip

The Bangungot was one ugly son of a bitch, and she didn’t go down easy.

They’d hunted her down in Tacoma, where there’d been a recent string of deaths—people had been dying in their sleep. Not the peaceful kind where someone drifts away without ever knowing what happened. They’d been out cold every time, but their deaths were crushing and ugly and they’d all been left looking hollowed out from the inside.

Sam had connected all of the victims to the same coffee shop in town, a place called Hustle & Calm, so they started there. 

Dean hated it, sending Cas in undercover without backup while he and Sam ran around the city chasing leads. 

“I can handle it, Dean,” Cas said, “I have experience working in the service industry.”

That was one of the reasons Dean didn’t like the plan. There was something obscene about the way Cas was so cavalier about revisiting that time in his life, in both of their lives, that had yanked something out of Dean—something he’d been trying put back in since the very second those words left his mouth.

_You can’t stay_.

But he’d come back, because no matter how hard Dean pushed, Cas always came back. Dean promised himself he'd never repeat those words, and he hadn't, but Cas kept leaving and Cas kept coming back—except every time he left after that first time, it was without Dean’s permission. And every time he left without Dean telling him to was worse than the time he did.

They’d tracked down the monster to her next victim’s home—fighting through plastic barriers and still-damp plastered drywall in the renovated house to gank the monster. Turns out she was a woodland spirit, one who didn’t take too well to her forest being ripped to pieces to get cut down into 2x4s for yuppy renos. The coffee shop had been a red herring. It turned out it was just a popular place. 

As Dean’s blade cut through the bone and tendons holding the Bangungot’s head to her body, he looked up at Cas, who was watching as he grunted through the hack job. He had a tiny alarm go off in his head after he was done. Would this be the moment he left again, going God knows where to do who the fuck knows what? Or would he stick around a while?

“Well, that was gross,” Dean said, flicking gore off his hands. “You good, Sammy?”

“I’m good,” he said, climbing up from the dusty floor where he’d been thrown. 

Dean half expected to find the other side of the room empty. But there he was, Cas, standing solemnly amongst the blood and destruction laid to waste around them. He was so clean and so untouched it made Dean’s stomach hurt. He wanted to reach out and leave a mark.

“Back to the motel?” he asked.

“Yes,” Cas answered. “I have to work tomorrow.”

Sam looked as confused as Dean was. 

“Dude, job’s finished. You’re officially off the clock.”

“No, Dean. I have several shifts scheduled this week. I intend to fulfill my promise to Toby.”

“Who the hell is _Toby_?” Dean asked, but it sounded more like an accusation than a question.

“My manager.”

** SUNDAY, NOON–6 **

As he pushed the door of the coffee shop open, Dean heard a gentle ringing above his head—not the electronic beep you’d find in a gas station, but a real bell, something antique and brass.

It was the type of lame hipster crap that made Dean’s neck stiff.

Sam hadn’t stayed, he’d gone back to the bunker in Cas’ hideous Lincoln Continental. Dean had insisted Cas needed someone there, that he should have someone around to keep an eye on him. Sam had just given his brother a look, and Dean told him exactly where he could shove that look and ignored him when he left. 

He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, heavy with some old laptop Sam had got him from a second-hand store so he could at least pretend to get something done as he sat around at a cafe for hours.

As he walked through the narrow space looking for a seat, Dean was distracted by a mop of dark hair moving around behind the counter. He threw his bag on an empty table and sat down, deciding to set up before he placed his order.

As he pulled out the computer, his attention kept turning to Cas, like he was creating some sort of damn gravitational pull. Blue eyes, blue even from here, and a full mouth drawn into a straight line as he concentrated on taking orders. Dean felt something tug at his chest as he looked at him, but pushed it down and away before he approached the counter.

He was only here to watch out for the guy.

“Mornin’,” Dean greeted, full of the casual charm he’d typically throw at a stranger he needed something from. “I’ll take a,” he faltered, looking at the chalkboard menu on the wall above Cas’ head. He didn’t know what half of it was. “Uh, a coffee.”

“We have many varieties, Dean,” Cas said. “Would you like drip coffee, an espresso, a blonde-blend cortado? We’re also offering a seasonal latte with a… peppermint stick.” Cas’ face tightened as he held up a glass jar filled with red-and-green spiralled candy canes, like he’d been forced to do it at gunpoint.

“What the hell are you talking about? I want coffee. A _coffee_ coffee. You know, hot, black, has caffeine in it.” Dean shifted where he stood, feeling like a fool asking for something so simple in a place where everyone was quietly sipping foamy drinks for trendy douchebags. He didn’t see a lot of peppermint sticks in mugs though. _Looks like Cas has already made an impression_ , Dean thought sourly.

“I’ll make you something you’ll like,” Cas said, his eyebrows knitted together in a serious line. Dean paid— _a bit friggin' much_ —and Cas moved to the massive espresso machine to drag a damp cloth over the silver wand. He was still wearing his white dress shirt, but he’d rolled up the sleeves to keep them clean and Dean watched his forearms flex as he wiped away the drying foam.

A sharp, sudden hiss of steam pulled him back to the surface, out of the whirlpool that was doing its best to drown him. He cleared his throat and walked towards the open stretch of counter where he’d seen other people pick up their orders. 

Cas’ gaze could have melted glass, and Dean was surprised the mug didn’t turn to liquid in his hands as he focused on the slow pour of the espresso and seemed to count every second of every step of making Dean’s coffee.

When it was finally done, he put it on the glossy, wooden countertop and slid it over to Dean. 

“Caffé macchiato,” he said, his voice low as if they were sharing a secret.

Dean’s mouth twisted as he looked at the thick layer of foam resting on the top of his coffee. “Thanks, buddy,” he muttered, giving Cas a quick nod.

“You’re welcome, Dean. I’m sure you’ll like it. I’m very good at this job.”

“You’ve been working here four freakin’ days,” he snapped. 

“I enjoy it. We call our team the Hustle Fam,” he said with a small smile.

“Coffee ain’t thicker than blood, Cas.” Dean snatched his drink off the counter and retreated back to his seat to brood. 

He wanted something to be off in the small cafe. He did. He wanted an excuse to pull Cas back to him, to get him out of there and remind him where he belonged—beside Dean, on a hunt or in the bunker or driving across the country in the Impala. But other than the bizarre amount of plants and the angel of the Lord slinging drinks behind the counter, nothing was out of place. He shifted on the uncomfortable wooden bench. Maybe it was him. He was out of place. 

Cas looked happy, though—relaxed. In fact, he looked better than he had in a long time.

There was always something brilliant about Cas, something bright that shone through his stoic, serious exterior. Not his grace or his true form, just him. But lately, every time he came back from whatever weird angel mission he’d been on, it seemed like he was dimmed. He was losing that glistening edge and becoming so much more like the human version of himself that Dean wanted to forget. 

But here he was, all sharp angles and warm smiles. Wearing a black apron and a name tag that splashed _Castiel_ across his chest for everyone to see. 

Dean’s coffee was sitting beside his computer, still steaming. He lifted the cup, smelling it first—yep, definitely coffee—before lifting it slowly to his lips.

He took a small sip and still managed to burn his tongue. But once the sting started to subside and he could actually start to taste it... _Well, damn_.

It was smooth and rich and slid down his throat without him having to choke it down or grimace. He’d never known anything outside of diner-thick sludge, considering the drink to be nothing more than a source of fuel. John had started feeding it to him when he was ten, telling him to drink up so he could stay awake with him on some hunt and he’d never bothered with sugar or cream so Dean hadn’t either. It was gasoline.

This. This wasn’t that.

Or if it was, it was fucking premium. 

Dean tipped the mug back, not caring that the cooling foam was making a home in the stubble over his upper lip. He looked at Cas, who was standing at the counter explaining to a customer that her husband’s infidelity wasn’t his fault but was probably the root of her displeasure with the dairy-free beverage she’d ordered, and every wire in his body, every twist that Dean tried so impossibly to undo, bundled into a knot under his ribs.

As he watched, still sipping his coffee, he thought about how many roles Cas filled in Dean’s life. Important ones. And if they added another, the one Dean felt so guilty for wanting, it would be so easy to lose what they already had. 

He knew it was one-sided. He knew it was stupid. He needed to get over it.

After every other hunt, Cas would up and go. Midway through most conversations, he’d just take off. If Dean ever considered saying the words out loud—the ones he only let himself half-form in the dark—when would he even have the chance? 

He felt so fucking selfish, threatening a friendship that had seen him through the apocalypse, through so many ends of the world it was almost impossible to track. How could he ask more from a man who fought and died beside him… died for him? 

But he’d already crossed that line, and he knew it. The water was rushing over his head and filling his lungs and no matter how much of this coffee he drank, the acid wouldn’t burn through the goddamn butterflies he felt every time he laid eyes on that friggin’ angel.

He looked around. Everyone was sitting, typing on their small, silver laptops working on their novels or screenplays or whatever.

He looked at the page he was using to save research notes to send to Sammy for some other case the nerd was already texting him about. He opened a new document and the cursor blinked at him. He couldn’t stare at monster crap anymore, but what the hell else could he do to fill his time?

Dean’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

_Journaling, Winchester? Why not just send an email to Dr. Phil_.

He rubbed his hands over his face and turned his attention back to Cas. Dean watched him talk people out of whipped cream and into, instead, different roasts from Ethiopia or Columbia, and recommend simpler, more flavourful drinks that he thought would suit their palate. Some people needed more convincing than others, and he wondered if these hipster idiots would listen if they knew what Cas really was—if they’d even care.

Dean could have sworn at one point Cas was talking to someone about goats, but it was hard to hear from where he was sitting. 

He spent a few hours ignoring Cas and went back to his research so he could feel like he’d accomplished something. Maybe prove to Sammy this whole terrible idea wasn’t a complete waste of time.

When Cas’ shift was over, they drove back to the motel. But without the buzz of the cafe in his ears—the clacking of keyboards, the murmured conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine—the only thing Dean could focus on was Cas’ voice, quiet and happy, as he detailed the things he’d done that day for people he didn’t know but for some reason seemed to care about. 

Dean hadn’t eaten so they pulled through a drive-through.

“It’s really amazing, Dean,” Cas was saying, “how difficult it is for some people to accept they want something better.”

** MONDAY, 8–2 **

Dean woke up to an empty room. The bed that had been Sam’s was left with nothing more than an imprint where Cas had decided to sit for a minute or second or a few hours while Dean slept. The rumpled bedspread was the only clue that he’d even been there until he got to the coffee maker. 

The soft circle of grinds the hotel provided was gone. In its place was a note: _I’ll make you something you’ll like_.

Dean swore when he saw it. But he also wondered if he’d ever seen Cas’ handwriting before. He couldn’t remember, but it was so easy to imagine Cas carefully printing the straightforward, blocky letters with one of his small, private smiles.

“Freakin’ angels, man.”

**********

The bell rang, drawing Cas’ attention to the door. He was standing behind the counter with his sleeves rolled, like they’d been yesterday, and he would have almost looked casual if it weren’t for the blue tie he wore tucked under his apron. 

There was something burning under Dean’s fingertips that made him want to pull on the neck of that apron until it ripped. It just didn’t belong there—didn’t belong on Cas.

Dean shifted impatiently, waiting in the long line to order. He wasn’t worried this time about decoding the menu. He knew it didn’t matter what he asked for because Cas would make him whatever he wanted anyway. 

John would scoff—or worse—if he could see the tough hunter he’d barely raised standing in line at some ritzy coffee joint, tapping his thigh nervously as he thought about steamed milk and hot coffee and what Cas’ hand looked like when he held a pen.

It was his turn. “Mornin’ Cas.”

“Good morning, Dean. What would you like?”

“I’d like if you left my damn coffee alone,” he said, too tired to fume properly over the early morning betrayal. 

Cas smiled at him, just the way Dean imagined it earlier. 

Well, he could cut that shit right out. There was one thing Dean Winchester didn’t joke about, and it was his morning coffee. His whole day hinged on that damn coffee. It was almost as important as his late-afternoon whiskey.

“I’ll make it up to you, Dean. Trust me,” Cas said. And he winked, he fucking _winked_ , and Dean didn’t know what do except scowl in response. 

Cas rang him up and he absently handed over a handful of change. More change, again, than he thought was reasonable. 

His coffee came in a smaller cup than yesterday, and it was more bitter and less rich, but it did everything right to Dean’s insides. He wasn’t prepared for the noise that forced its way out of the back of his throat at his first sip, and the look Cas gave him as he lowered the cup made his face burn hotter than the espresso. 

“I was right.” 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean turned, cheeks still tingling with embarrassed heat. He wouldn’t give Cas the satisfaction, he wouldn’t. It wasn’t fair how he slid into this place and started handing out coffee and smiles as if they came so easily. Like Dean had never had to work for those smiles, hadn’t half died to see them. 

That twisted thing inside him was tightening, winding up his insides until he couldn’t sit still any longer.

He stared at his computer—the cursor blinked at him.

_Stay_ , he wrote. He glanced quickly around him. His back was to a wall, but even that one word, that one small plea that felt more like an admission than a request, made Dean feel like every eye in the place was aimed directly at his screen. 

He mashed the delete button a few times before slamming the computer closed.

He was enjoying his coffee more than he should, so he stood up before he was done and left the shop with nothing more than the quiet sound of the bell tinkling overhead. If anyone watched him go, he didn’t see it.

He grabbed a burger, alone, and spent the rest of the day at a bar.

** TUESDAY, OPEN–12 **

He was staring again, but Cas was too busy to notice. Dean could tell he was popular with the customers, and the formal, forthright way he spoke to them was made up for with his ability to know exactly what people would like or need. They trusted him. 

Dean looked into his cup bitterly. He bet the guy’s dumb face didn’t hurt any, either. If people were into that type of thing.

There was one chick who stopped in every time Dean had been there. He watched the way she talked to Cas, how her smile would grow and she’d lean towards him as he took her order—obvious even with the counter between them. 

His stomach dropped when she took a cardboard sleeve from the counter and wrote something on it, passing it to Cas as he handed over her coffee. 

He smiled at her, a small, genuine smile, and Dean wanted to slap the damn cup right out of her hands. 

Maybe the guy would be happier here. Happier with some normal girl who lived a normal life without Dean’s bullshit and the pathetic drips of desperation and need that he tried and failed to keep contained.

That girl would be able to run her hands through Cas’ hair without hating herself for how badly she wanted it, or leave marks on his skin that she wouldn’t ask him to hide afterwards. 

Dean dropped his mug to the bench beside him and dumped a little of the amber liquid from his flask into it. He winced as he took a sip. What Cas had made him was warm and acidic and smooth. He’d ruined it—turned it lukewarm and bitter.

** WEDNESDAY, 4–CLOSE **

He was burning. The flames rushed through him, through the parts of himself he tried to ignore when he was standing beside Castiel or looking at Castiel or smelling Castiel—and then there he was in front of him. He was standing too close and all Dean could see was a full mouth and he finally, God finally, leaned in to taste.

Dean woke with a start, face stuck to the starched hotel pillow.

He stretched and scratched and realized Cas had left early again. When he had a morning shift it made sense, but Dean could have sworn he said he wasn’t working until the afternoon. 

Sighing, he pushed his hands against his eyes, trying to shake off the dregs of the dream. It left him feeling hollowed out. 

He knew he was being selfish, wanting more from Cas. But in the end it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t sure there was anything left in him that was capable of hope. It had all been burned out, sick and withered with the Mark. And then again and again every time the angel left him behind, another little piece was cut away from the part of him that still screamed _maybe_.

But still. 

Maybe, goddamn it. 

He watched TV too loudly and paced the room until he couldn’t. He eventually climbed into the Impala and drove instead—his mind finally quiet until he found himself parked outside of the coffee shop. 

_Fan-freakin’-tastic_. 

**********

From his usual, uncomfortable seat, Dean watched the way Cas’ back moved as he lifted two heavy bags of wet grinds. He made his way out from behind the counter and headed towards the side door that led to the alleyway. 

It was cold, but Dean didn’t feel it as he followed Cas outside. Heavy, slushy snow was falling from the sky, leaving soft splatters on the dark asphalt. If Cas knew Dean was there, he didn’t acknowledge him. He tossed the grinds into the compost bin, but didn’t turn around even after the lid slammed shut. 

Dean’s tongue was thick from the coffee he’d tossed back earlier. He opened his mouth to say the things he’d been playing over and over in his head for days—for years—but it was like trying to speak a language he’d never learned. 

His mind raced through it all. How badly he wanted to taste the salt of sweat drying on Cas’ skin. How he’d bitten through his own tongue fighting the urge to bury his nose in Cas’ hair and breathe him in. How he’d lose himself imagining what it would feel like to run his hands down the prim lines of Cas’ trousers and find him hard and wanting. 

How he’d dreamed about looking for Cas and always, always being able to find him.

Instead, he walked towards the angel slowly, giving his heart a chance to stop pounding from the caffeine, and put a hand on his shoulder. It was the barest brush of fingertips against snow-damp cotton.

“Cas, I—” 

He finally turned, and something stuck in the hunter’s throat at the way wet snow sat heavy in Cas’ hair and slid down his face, leaving behind cool, damp trails that practically demanded to be chased with Dean’s tongue. 

He smelled like spilled coffee and Dean couldn’t remember why he’d come outside, but he finally had rough stubble under his palms and his fingers buried in dark hair and he knew if he didn’t get to pull the bitter taste of espresso from that mouth into his own he’d suffocate. 

He leaned in, brushing his cold nose against Cas’ skin—waiting for him to pull away or go back inside where it was warm and where things were easy. But then Cas angled his head and brushed his lips feather-light against Dean’s. 

Something inside of Dean cracked like porcelain, filling his chest with something rich and hot as he pushed in closer, and kissing Cas was more consuming than the million times he’d dreamed it. Fingers were digging into his hips, and Cas’ tongue was brushing against Dean’s lower lip and, yes, he tasted bitter and sweet, of earth and electricity, like a live wire left spinning in the grass. As snow soaked Dean’s jacket and dripped down the back of his neck, he opened his mouth to let Cas in and broke into pieces.

Dean pushed him against the wet brick wall, moving a thigh between Cas’ legs to press tighter against him. His hair, oh that was heaven, but running hands down his sides and pushing fingers into the dip of his spine where he was arched away from the wall, arched into Dean, was so much better. 

He’d never get his fill of that mouth, but he pulled away, needing to know if Cas’ throat tasted as good as his mouth did. And once that skin was laid out in front of him he couldn’t keep his teeth or tongue off of it. 

“Dean?” Cas asked, low, dark—like it was coming from the pit of his stomach. 

Dean answered by whispering Cas’ name again and again against his skin. He started shivering, not from the cold, when Cas grabbed his belt loops to pull their hips even closer together.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean moaned, grinding into the heat between Cas’ legs and dizzy from the blood pooling low in his stomach. 

That apron. Dean had hated it the second he saw it. Now it was just another layer between them. He leaned back, just enough to try to rip the goddamn thing off of Cas without breaking the contact between their bodies.

“Dean, please—” Cas started, but the words were lost in a gasp when an uncontrolled jut of his hips slid the hardening line of his cock against Dean’s, who forgot the apron to slide his hands over the curve of Cas’ ass. He grabbed almost too hard, reaching down the back of Cas’ thighs to lift strong legs up around his waist. 

With Cas pressed against the wall, held in place with Dean’s mouth and hips and Cas’ arms around his shoulders, it was burning him up more than a cup of fucking coffee ever could. He knew this was it, this was where Cas needed to stay. 

Dean didn’t care that they were in public, he didn’t care who could see them. All he knew was skin and electricity and want. 

“Wait.” Cas was breathless as he pulled back. His lips were wet and kiss-swollen, but he was smiling—one of those slow smiles that crested like a sunrise and swallowed Dean whole. 

“What’s wrong?” Dean tried to control his breathing as Cas leaned his head back against the brick, looking down at Dean with a cocked brow even as he continued to slowly writhe against him.

“I still have two hours left on my shift.”

Dean almost dropped him.

“What? Are you—” The thought of having to pull away now, to let Cas go and watch him talk politely to customers with flushed cheeks and shoulders that moved under his shirt like thunder made Dean feel like maybe Hell wasn’t as bad as he remembered. 

“Two hours, Dean.” His feet dropped to the ground, but he cupped his palm against the front of Dean’s jeans and reached back up to lick into Dean’s mouth. 

“Goddamn, Cas,” he groaned, pushing into the touch. “Might not make it two hours if you keep that up.”

But he knew he would wait. He would wait and he would do nothing more than that for the rest of his life if Cas kept looking at him the way he was right at that moment. 

So they went back in and Dean sat on that uncomfortable bench he couldn’t get used to. He was cold and wet but he felt like maybe he was allowed to stare and smile at the angel serving coffee behind the counter and that was enough.

** THAT NIGHT, AFTER WORK **

It happened after Cas threw him on top of the cheap bedspread in the motel room, his grace sliding beneath Dean’s skin and lighting him up from the inside. Dean couldn’t stop the words.

And then it wasn’t only his grace, and as Cas wrapped his lips around Dean’s straining cock and worked him open with his fingers and then his tongue, Dean said them again and again. 

_Jesus Christ, sweetheart, I love you, need you inside, I want you fuck me until I’m raw until you break me in half just stay—_

When Cas slowly pushed into Dean, sinking into the hot place he never thought he’d need or he’d want him so badly, he threw his head back and gave in.

It was too much, it was overwhelming. Heat calloused hands were skimming and digging into every soft piece of flesh they could find, sending shockwaves of bright lightning down his thighs and into the deepest part of him. As those hands pushed his legs back and apart, and as Cas slowly sunk in deeper and harder than he’d ever hoped, his back arched and he found himself praying again—maybe this time out loud. 

“Fuck, Cas, please,” he moaned, he pled. He’d never felt so shameless, never so whole or so wanted. When Cas started slow and easy, Dean pulled him down so he could swallow the desperate, delicious noises he was making. And when that turned into something harder and hungrier, when Cas was fucking him so hard it was like getting hit by a goddamn tsunami, the fact Dean had ever thought something as small and powerless as a whirlpool could swallow him whole seemed impossible, like a bad joke. 

Dean said it all again after Cas collapsed heavy on top of him, amid flickering lights and the fading burn of silver behind blue eyes, when they were both panting and sticky with sweat and come.

He grabbed whatever t-shirt was within reach, hoping it wasn’t the one he’d been wearing because it was one of his favourites, and wiped them both down. 

Cas curled into him, still hot and smelling of the coffee he’d spent the last week making. Dean closed his eyes and let himself breathe in.

“I dunno how I’ll ever sleep again after all the damn caffeine you fed me,” he said, holding Cas a little tighter.

“You didn’t consume any more than you normally would. Perhaps there’s another reason for your elevated heart rate,” he said, lips pressing against Dean’s neck. 

Dean laughed. “Yeah, maybe.” Then after a beat, “You gonna come back to the bunker with me? Or do you have somewhere you gotta be?”

“Who else would make you coffee in the mornings? I like to think I’ve made myself indispensable.” 

“You’ve got a point,” Dean said, smiling into messy hair. “Dunno if I can stomach the crap Sam makes anymore.”

Cas leaned up to kiss him softly and, to Dean, it kinda felt like the beginning of a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so so so excited to be contributing to the Dean/Cas Mid-Winter 5k! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this bizarre little non-AU coffee shop AU that has been spinning around in my head for months. As a reader who doesn't necessarily always dig the coffee shop trope, I wanted to write something that would take a canon-compliant, bi-disaster Dean Winchester and throw him into a cafe with his favourite angel working behind the counter and see what would happen. And voila. 
> 
> SO MUCH LOVE AND GRATITUDE to my Betas [DrJackAndMissJo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJackAndMissJo/pseuds/DrJackAndMissJo), for your infallible proof reading and input, and [K A Mindin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_A_Mindin/pseuds/K_A_Mindin), who made sure I got my Dean Winchester characterization *just right* and helped me take a step back and figure out what I really wanted this story to be. I'm a better writer because of you both, and this story is only as good as it is because of your time and talented eyeballs. 
> 
> Another massive thank you to the wonderful squad at the ProfoundBond Discord server, who understood my vision (even when I didn't) and helped my brainstorm ways to make coffee sexy.


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